Again and Again
by the-speed-reader
Summary: The angles had always ended with him, and loosing him was something that she couldn't go through. / Huntingbird, one-shot.


_Here's that Huntingbird piece I was talking about in the author's note from my other fic! It's sort of OC, but I tried._

_Honestly, I didn't really like Bobbi when I heard she was coming on the show, mostly cause my mind went to Clint and Bobbi's past relationship, and Clintasha is my OTP of my OTPs. But I really like her relationship with Hunter, and they're good together. Well, not good, but fanfiction good._

_Enjoy._

* * *

"_It's always hard to lose somebody. It leaves a hole in your heart that never grows back._" -Kevin Brooks

* * *

She tips the bottle back, the liquid sliding from the neck of the glass to the smooth curve of her lips, searing down her throat with an all too familiar burn. Her fingers are curled around the bottle as if it's a lifeline, the dangerously seductive liquid quite possibly the one thing keeping her sane in this hellhole of a shelter at the moment.

She can almost feel the footsteps before she hears them; realistically, she knows that that's impossible, yet it doesn't feel like it. She knows those footsteps, having heard them a thousand times. The way his toe scuffles against the floor first, his heel clicking hard on the other side as it follows. He'd never been light-footed; that had always been her job.

There's a quiet beeping before the door slides open, a smooth plane of light spreading across the room as though it had never been there before. He pauses when he sees her, the whistle dying from his lips.

"Bobbi," he tells her, voice at a low pitch, and she almost laughs at the irony of the situation. He'd never been one for talking quietly; they'd fought and argued with every nail sharpened and every tooth bared the moment they had met, and it was rare to see otherwise.

"Yes," she hums back, dipping another sip of the bottle into her lips. "You know my name. Congratulations. Another award for the infamous bounty hunter, Mr. Lance Hunter, ladies and gentlemen."

There's an almost exasperated sigh falling from his lips as he toes his shoes off, stripping his jacket and tossing it to the side as the door slides shut behind him. He leans against the wall, for all purposes looking as suave as the day she had meet him.

"What do you want?" he asks, eyes shifting around as if to sense any other ulterior purpose. "I haven't seen you in a week. Hell, you haven't wanted to be near me for the past _month._"

She quirks an eyebrow at him, one of her curls falling from its former place behind her ear. She draws her legs out from their crisscrossed position, one finger starting to tap a pattern on her knee.

"Honestly?" she asks, meeting his gaze steadily. "I came here for sex."

She can see how his breath quickens; how his gaze flickers over her form, pupils dilating as he takes in her attire, yoga shorts and a white tee.

"For release," she continues. "A way to get my mind off of this hellhole."

"Is that all you think of me?" he asks, but there's a teasing note tumbling from his lips as he draws himself closer, positioning himself directly in front of her so his foot nudges hers. His hands tear the bottle from her fingertips before settling over her thighs, rubbing his thumb on a scar that he knows better than anyone.

It's rare for him to be like this – to be coy, she means. He'd always been so forward, never afraid of screaming what he feels. She'd been the same; though, not with everyone. Mostly with him.

Their relationship had been a tumble of ups and downs, never quite settling on that spot of peace in between; it had been a place of dipping over the edge, not looking before falling, putting the other's safety before ones own. She'd never known the selfish side of Hunter, unlike so many others. He'd been too much of a bastard to let anything happen to her, despite the fact that she had reminded him, time after time after time, that she could take care of herself. Hell, she was the goddamn Mockingbird; men spoke her name in fear, not worry.

He'd always been different, and she keeps going back to him again and again and again. She'd never had any idea why.

His lips lower to her collarbone, nipping there as she tilts her head to give him better access. One hand moves from its place on her thigh to dig itself in her curls, carefully pulling her head back as his lips make their way upward, sending a jolt of _something _down her spine. His other hand remains on her thigh, inching upwards as she jerks him down on the bed next to her.

"God, Hunter," she hisses, exasperated. "I'm not a _doll_."

He raises his head for a moment, if only to speak to her: "I know you aren't, _Bobbi._" Her name is said almost in spite then, but she doesn't have any time to contemplate it before he's pressing his lips to hers in a real kiss, not like the half-assed ones he's been teasing her with. She takes control though, unable to let him take the lead; her tongue rubs itself along his lower lip before slipping between his lips.

She can feel the beginning of a moan echoing in his chest as she rubs her fingers on his collar, starting to pull the offending object over his head. He obliges, untangling his fingers from her curls to help pull his shirt off. Half his body is draped over her now as she runs her fingers down his chest, taking her time.

He pulls away for a second before his lips directly reattach themselves to the spot just below her collarbone, emitting a low hum from her lips as she gasps.

She can feel him smirking against her skin. "Even after all this time," he mouths, kissing downwards, "I can still make you moan, can't I, Bobbi?"

She wants to hit him. She really, really wants to smack him. But she can't focus, because his hands are everywhere at one and she's tugging on the waistband of his jeans, tugging them down his hips. His middle recoils under her touch, and she almost imagines that she can feel him shuddering.

Only him – only he can make her feel like this, and she _hates_ it. No, she _loathes _it. Only Hunter can make her feel like she's drowning and surviving all at once.

* * *

She wakes up in the middle of the night with sweat clinging to her skin, a gasp tearing from her chest as she jerks upwards, her tank top suddenly feeling like a barrier against her skin. She fumbles for the light on the side table, forgetting about the man next to her until he stirs when the brightness hits his face.

"Bob…" he starts, bringing a hand up to his face to block out the light. She fights to bring air into her lungs, but it's almost as if something cold and dark has coiled in her middle, slamming a weight in her chest.

But then he sees how she's still caught in the clutches of a panicky nightmare, because they've both dealt with each other's midnight terrors. He turns over in a flash, his fingers curling around a bottle of water left lying carelessly on the side table. He unscrews it before forcing it into her hands (_she's trembling, why is she trembling?_) and she brings it to her lips as if she's not in control of her actions.

She calms down after a few moments, air flooding her lungs as she struggles to take control back into her limbs. She tucks her knees up to her chest as he brushes a curl behind her ear, his other hand falling behind him to support his upright figure as he waits. Because they've done this routine a thousand times, and he knows what to do when she's like this. In turn, she knows what to do when it's his turn to wake up with his demons crawling on his skin.

She swallows thickly, closing her eyes. She can feel his hands curl around her shoulder, fingertips settling on an old gunshot wound. She blows out a breath between her lips, the sweat still sticky on her skin, but not as suffocating.

"What was it now?" he asks, voice a low murmur. The light from the lamp is scattered all across the room and over the pair of them, sending shadows flickering across his face. "Was is Mack? Your parents?"

She keeps her eyes closed, refusing to look at him as she nudges her nose against her knee.

Because how could she tell him that it was his name that had been caught in her throat? How could she tell him that it was his body that she saw, bloody and bullet-ruined? She can still see the image behind her eyelids; she can still sense the feeling of the gun underneath her fingertips as she had screamed, her hands stumbling for a pulse.

Their relationship had always been complicated; a screwed up mess that mirrored their screwed up lives. Divorcing had seemed like the better idea because secrets had no place in a marriage. It wasn't his fault and it wasn't hers, though sometimes the balance tipped so one was more at fault than the other in certain situations. But in the end, they always came back to each other one way or another. She had told him that she'd recommended him for Coulson's team because he was good; but part of her, that deep little part that she had tried (and failed) to keep buried away, had told her that it was because she _missed _him.

She takes another deep breath before opening her eyes, shooting him a soft smile. "I'm alright," she tells him, taking another sip of the water. It feels good running down her throat – not as good as the alcohol had earlier, but it still carried that tranquilizing effect. "It was just – just a nightmare."

He rubs his thumb from its place on her shoulder, not moving from his position a few inches away. "Want to talk about it?"

She throws him a smirk to hide the unsettling feeling growing in her middle, stretching out her limbs as she sets the bottle to the side. "Are we going to have a heart-to-heart, Hunter?" she jokes as she lies back again, his hand slipping from her shoulder.

He's still sitting up, looking down at her with a half-frown on his features. "Bobbi," he states, mouth twisted into one of worry. "You're forgetting again – I _know _you."

The smirk vanishes from her face as she rolls over, burying her nose in the pillow. She'd fallen back on his side of the bed, and it smells like him, like that old whiskey scent he never really got rid of and that god-awful axe he likes to wear because he thinks it makes him seem more ruggedly appealing.

There's silence for a few seconds before he leans over her, turning off the light with a sharp click. There's a moment where she thinks that he's going to leave; after all, that's what she's come to expect.

But then he's pressing a light kiss to her forehead before setting back down beside her, one hand settling warmly over her hip. It's a nice gesture, something so un-Hunter like, that she almost swears her sleep-addled mind conjured it up.

He's never been good at subtlety, so when she hears quietly, "Don't die on me, love," she almost laughs in the pure irony of the situation. It's more likely the opposite, but that had become their saying in years past.

"I'll try not to," she whispers back, letting her eyes slip shut finally.

She can't lose him; she can't afford to lose him. The angles had always ended with him, and loosing him was something that she couldn't go through.

But days later, when he's screaming at her to run away with him, to start over, to be new people, she wants to badly to take his deal. She wants to be with him, to forget the screwed-up life as a secret agent, but she can't do that. She made a promise, and she's going to follow that through.

She can't forget the look in his eyes when he tells her he's leaving for good. She can do a lot of things, but she can't stop him from leaving.

She'd never been able to.

* * *

_If you've read my works before, you know that I tend to struggle with endings. This one was one of them._


End file.
